Dark Leaf: Crack or Shatter
by Katharine Faith
Summary: A series of ficlets set within JastaElf's Dark Leaf universe. Rated for severe angst and possible future adult themes. Written with permission.


**Dark Leaf: Crack or Shatter**

_By Katharine_

_Disclaimer: _The Lord of the Rings _and all related properties are copyrights of J.R.R. Tolkien, et al. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No infringement is intended._

**Warnings: Rated R for massive angst and possible adult themes in the future.**

**This is a series of ficlets set within JastaElf's _Dark Leaf_ universe. I was granted permission to explore the eighteen years between Legolas' capture and his blockbuster rescue from Dol Guldur. Certain lines of dialogue have been lifted from the _Dark Leaf_ saga itself; these belong entirely to JastaElf, and I claim no rights to them.**

**Thank you, Jasta, for your magnificent work, and for permission to play in your toybox for a bit.**

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"_Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro,_

_In all the raging impotence of woe."_

--Homer, from _The Iliad _(book XXII, line 526)

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_**The Key of Grief (Reprise)**_

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Faint voices echoed from the hearth, carried upon the smoky tendrils and flickering light drifting from within the carven stone framework. Memories were reduced to mere snatches of speech in the silence of the royal chambers. Grief was an ever-present demon in the dark, as oppressive as the veil of storm clouds smothering the skies above Mirkwood.

_We were not in time._

The quiet, stricken voice of Imladris' golden-haired seneschal was always the first to emerge from the haze.

_The Nazgûl barred our way…_

Glorfindel's words were so simple, so plain—far from adequate to carry such a heavy burden. They certainly weren't strong enough to bear the doom of a kingdom, or to shatter a proud king's heart.

…_the Orcs escaped us, and made it to Dol Guldur._

Nevertheless, the Doom had been borne, and the king's heart had surely broken.

**_Tithen emlin_**…**_nin meliôn-neth!_**

His own voice now, small and desolate in the silence of Galadriel's glade. The words a beseeching whimper, barely audible, shivering with scarcely-contained agony.

_Legolas must have your strength… or he will not survive._

Thranduil of Mirkwood gave a heavy, misery-laden sigh. He was seated on the floor before the hearth, his verdant fur-lined robe pooled around him in abundant folds. His arms were draped over his crossed legs, and his fingers stirred slow, numbing patterns in the thick woolen carpet of his private bedchamber as he stared into the leaping flames. A few long locks of finely spun golden hair hung forward, glinting in the firelight.

…_son of Oropher…_

Galadriel's voice, smooth and clear as the running water of the Nimrodel. Thranduil could still feel the Lady's delicate fingers at the sides of his face as she spoke, softly but urgently, persuading him not to abandon life in his grief.

_Would you forsake your child while hope remains, son of Oropher? I tell you this, if you perish, he shall follow close behind. Legolas must have your strength, Thranduil. He must, or he will not survive._

Thranduil clenched his eyes shut, his fingers stilling for a moment. No depth of knowledge about the Shadow's malice could have prepared him for the horror and cruelty within the Mirror's depths. No measure of experience nor restraint could have braced him against the frightened cries of his little bird.

_Ada, where are you?_

With a wrenching intake of breath, Thranduil forced the anguish back down into his gut, where it churned and roiled like a great black serpent. Some distant part of his mind fancied that the sorrow was indeed a living creature, coiling ever tighter round his heart, waiting for the moment in which to devour him whole. He listened to his breathing, the ragged rhythm a loud and insistent breach in the silence. The image of his youngest son floated before his eyes, and he dug his fingers into the carpeting as though it was the only thing keeping his tethered to reality.

_Would you forsake your child, son of Oropher?_

"Nay," he whispered, the word harsh and cracked like the abused desert floor of Rhûn. He would not abandon his child to face the Shadow alone. He would strive toward the day of Legolas' deliverance; and if that day never came, both father and son would perish in the same breath.

_**Breathe**, Thranduil…_

Celeborn's voice, quiet and resonant with pain, whispering the needful imperative. Thranduil's head bowed as memory assailed him once more. Galadriel's hushed glade yet echoed with the lonely, terror-choked cries of a captive Elfling, and the Lord of Lórien's hair fell as a silver sheet as the elder Elf cradled his stricken kinsman in his arms. _You must breathe…_

_Do trees breathe, Ada?_

Legolas' voice, melodic with youth, bright with curiosity, presenting one of his endless array of questions.

…_where does the Sun go when it sinks to sleep in the West? _

…_why does Uncle Tinuvîl talk so much? _

…_when I return from my first hunt, will I have to go to bed early anymore?_

The lord of Mirkwood shuddered, a sob clawing at his throat, his eyes burning mercilessly. Countless images swept past, visions of a sweet, golden-haired child bathed in the very same firelight that now haunted Thranduil's sleepless nights. Legolas had loved the hearth, and many a past night had found the Elfling tucked against his father's chest, drifting off to sleep as the elder Elf murmured gentle endearments and hummed ancient lullabies. Even now, Thranduil could almost smell his son's freshly washed hair, could almost feel the comfortable warmth of two small arms twined round his neck.

Thranduil opened his eyes once more and swallowed the knot of sour grief in his throat, swiping almost violently at the tears drying on his face. He had to be stronger than this. He could not exhibit the slightest hint of weakness, or his kingdom and its people would surely crumble. _Shadow gnaws at my lands, and I cannot hinder it for fear of my birdling's life...but I will not break before it._

"I swear this to you, _tithen emlin,_ I will not break!" Thranduil whispered fervently, hoping by all the Valar that his child could hear. "I will come for you, little one, and we will both be whole again…"

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**Translations:**

_Tithen emlin_ – Sindarin, "little golden bird;" Thranduil's nickname for Legolas

_Nin meliôn-neth_ – Sindarin, "my beloved young son"

_Ada_ – Sindarin, "daddy," a diminutive of _Adar_, "father"


End file.
